the cadence of part time poets

Chapter 2: A Man's Word

In restless dreams I walked alone,
Narrow streets of cobblestone;
'Neath the halo of a street lamp,
I turned my collar to the cold and damp;
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light,
That split the night,
And touched the sound of silence...

- "The Sound of Silence" Simon & Garfunkel, 1964

It was customary that Remus meet Giles at the junction between Fenchurch and Leadenhall in Aldgate, the symbolic start of London's East End. Even if the old chauffeur had been less adverse to navigating the slums, Remus would've still insisted on the long walk to the boundary line. The further away the better, really, as long as he wanted to keep the conditions of his birth a secret from the rest of his friends, something he'd somehow miraculously managed to do for the better part of three years. Remus might've bragged of the feat, had he had anyone to brag to, but that was part of the game; keep both lives separate so no toes would be crushed apart from his own.

By the time he was finally approaching the historic Aldgate Pump, Giles was already parked on the curb, drumming his fingers along the '67 Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow's steering wheel. Remus had just lit his third cigarette of the morning, and feeling it a waste to throw it away, he paused to grind out its tip on the bottom of his shoe and tuck it back in the carton.

"Have I not waited on your sorry arse long enough?"

When he glanced up, Remus found Giles standing on the road, dressed up in the same black suit he always wore, though the buttons had been looking more strained around the middle in recent years.

"Sorry, Gil," Remus said casually. Apologising was easier than explaining just why he'd been dragging his heels all the way from the end of the End.

Sighing heavily, Giles came around the car's boot and opened the door for him. "You smoke any more of those a day and you'll pop your clogs early."

Remus shrugged indifferently and ducked into the back seat as the door fell shut behind him. The driver returned to his seat in front, turning the engine over and pulling away from the curb.

"Where is it you reckon you're going to be able to get those once you're away at school?" Giles asked, looking at him in the rearview mirror. He liked to nag about the cigarettes and the alcohol, but Remus never paid much attention. You'd have to be completely frigid to run with lads like Tomny and resist those kinds of highs.

"You worry too much, Mum," Remus drawled, staring out the window as the car pulled past a trolley full of early-morning Londoners. Beyond that, a milk float wheeled past, off on its morning deliveries. It had taken some time, but he now had a decent stockpile of Embassy cigarettes, his personal favourite among middle-class tobacco for weeks. Players No. 6 were good too, but secretly Remus disliked how common they were among other teens.

The stockpile might've been enough for someone else, but—as Giles pointed out—at the rate he smoked, he'd most likely be running low before Halloween. Alcohol and the rest he could probably live without, but the cigarettes were a deal-breaker. The habit started when he began using them as a crutch to get his foot in the door with Tomny and the rest, who tended to smoke communally or else use them like currency. One smoke was a favour owed until you returned it with interest.

"Your father is livid," Giles said.

"So he's home?" He'd be in his office then. If the British Minister for Agricultural Welfare wasn't at the office, he was in it.

"Home and livid."

"When is he ever not livid?" Remus said, leaning his head back against the seat. Wisps of whitening hair escaped from beneath the driver's cap, resting on the rolls at the back of his neck. Remus could still remember when the driver's entire head was as stark-raving red as his nose and cheeks, but that had been some years ago now.